Dickens on a Bad Day
by sarcasticrocker86
Summary: Drabble one-shot AU. The story's been told a million times a hundred different ways. But there is one version that's never quite been told...


**A/N: **This story is not by me, it's by a new writer whom I have been trying to get to write for a very, very long time. He is a fantastic and I hope you enjoy his works as much as I have. This isn't his first piece, but it is the first he's willing to publish, and although he doesn't want to admit it, I know he's a bit concerned over how it will be received I'm pretty confident he'll be welcomed into the world of writing with open arms, though.

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><p>The sky was dirty. It was filled with small white particles drifting throughout the air. If an onlooker wasn't careful, he wouldn't be sure if the pieces were in fact floating up from the ground to the sky. The color of the sky wasn't any one definite color, but resembled the scribbles of a three year-old child armed with only a handful of dark color crayons. Death stood there wondering if this picturesque sky is what so many humans imagined what a nuclear fallout to be. His mind only wandered for a moment, being able to stay focused, or at least having the appearance of it, had never been something people complained of about him.<p>

The ground was hard. He only noticed because his knees had started to ache. After all of this, thought the man, and my only thoughts are about my knees - amazing. Had someone asked him has day had been going, his response would have tested even the most patient of listeners. He had been shown what very few people have had the opportunity to experience. To have seen his past; experience the present from an invisible point of view, and now – to bear witness to his future - to his death.

The fire roared. The heat rose. The light danced. Coffin forward. No one around. The fire called. The coffin answered. The fire. The coffin. Mating. Becoming one. No one around. Ashes captured. Air sterilized. No tears. No wails. No sadness. Ashes spread. Atoms scattered. No remembrance. No tears. No words. No earthly witnesses.

The air was thick. For the man the moment must be trying, but for death it had become routine. By the time they got to him, all that was needed was a gentle push, no more than a strong breeze. Recipe: Start with disbelief. Mix shock with denial. Gently stir in the tears fallen on the ground. Leave at room temperature. The cake would resemble a man clinging to the robe of the dark one, repenting for past sins and promising new virtues. Although it did not happened often throughout time, each incident could have replaced any one of the others. The Christmas gift was received the same way each time.

The muscles were strained. The man looked up at Death. He thought. He thought. He thought. Imagine for a moment the look on Atlas's face when Hercules took the weight of the world off his shoulders. Pure relief. That was the look on the man's face. "Thank you" picking himself off the ground. His knees no longer hurt.

The wind was silent. He watched the human raise up. His expression - it was in transition. "Shit-eating grin" was the best way that Death could describe. Was it combined with a twinkle in his eye? He looked down at the human, his own facial expression hidden in the depths of the cowl. The bottom tip of his scythe leaned at an angle against the dirt, making a small indentation.

"I have lived my life in with efficiencies. What others have cried as cheap, cold hearted and evil I have answered back with competent, prudent and genius! But even in my ways, I have always restrained myself because of fear. At those times when I was jeered by those around me, I placed around my neck, constraints, like a chain leash. It was not from them I received my fear, but from the unknown. Now I have been liberated. I have seen my future and now can remove the leash. Take me back, you spirit, to my bedroom from where I was kidnapped. I now know my future and fear nothing."

The tip of his scythe now hovered over the ground. The facial expression hidden, his covered head bowed, granting his wish. Death would remember these moments. He would recall this often. Mumbling silently, the sky changed, the dirt erased. His figure shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled into a bedpost.

The bedpost was his own. The bedroom was his. He heard noises outside his window. He opened it and said to the people down below "What is today?" "It is Christmas" was the answer he received. "It is Christmas" echoed back the man. He thought to himself. He picked up the phone. He spoke.

_"Come on, Henry, you have to be kidding!"_

_"No, Bob, I swear it on my kids life. We have to work a full day."_

_"But Henry, the boss said yesterday we could leave earlier."_

_"That was yesterday, Bob. I just got a message from the boss. You know a lot can change in a night."_

_"Damn that Scrooge. Damn him."_


End file.
